


I Will Rise

by lovemyway (vesper93)



Series: Stolen Moments [9]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: 1st person, Elio's POV, Love, Multi, Music, Post-Depression, joy, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 17:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper93/pseuds/lovemyway
Summary: Elio shares his gift.





	I Will Rise

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to say something here. I hope I got it right. Part II to 'The Descent'.

My fingers danced across the keys, my feet moving to the rhythm that poured throughout my body, and spilled out of my every pore, passion visible in every sinew of my form, in every breath I took and put forth into the music. There was no difference between me and the music, it was just part of me, part of my body, coming from my soul. My eyes were closed, I didn’t need to see the keys to know where to place my hands next; that would be like saying to a runner that they needed to look at their feet to know where to put them in a race. I had played this enough times that my body knew instinctively what came next.

I didn’t even care about the thousands of pairs of eyes that I knew were trained on my body. I wasn’t really aware of them. I had felt their presence when I’d stepped out here; the sound of my feet across the wooden boards muffled by the bodies packed into this full auditorium. But they were secondary. What mattered to me was the music that was pouring out of me, and the feeling that I was putting into it; every note a word that I had never spoken.

I had once thought that I knew everything. It’s something teenagers are wont to do; they think that they are grown up, and that they understand the world, even if it doesn’t understand them. But that was years ago, back when I thought that I had been dealt an insurmountably cruel hand. Now I knew, there was never a point where I would know everything, and that there was always something else to learn; be it a new emotion, or a new place, a new person, or a different story.

That was something he’d understood. And I believed that was why he hadn’t condemned me to only having one story; the first one. I had been so young then, and I thought I had held the world in my hands. And perhaps we did, for a little while. Perhaps, just for a moment, we had the stars, him and I. He had given me joy, he had shown me love, and he had caused me pain. But it taught me something; it taught me about the possibility of what _could_ be felt, and meant that I had never settled for less ever since. We had loved so fiercely, that nothing else would ever be enough for me; and for that gift alone I would love him forever.

The other gift he’d given me, of course, was this one. This ability to take a talent I’d had for many a year, and transform into something else, into something that a teacher of mine had once called ‘other-worldly’. I was able to pour every moment of joy, every moment of sorrow, into the music that I could create. Because if I had not felt these things, then how could I possibly convey them? If I had not had those moments where I thought my heart would burst from the delight coursing through me, then how would I put that into music? If I had not had those times when I felt like I might die, from the sheer pain of abandonment and loss, then how could I make other people feel those things with the way I played?

I brought my mind back to the moment, to the smoothness of the keys under my fingers, and the sheer exhilarating rush of the sound pouring from the instrument under my control. I had the audience in my web, spinning a crystal yarn of sound for them to cocoon themselves within. I knew that they were hanging on every note, scared, lest they miss a single second of the story that I was weaving. This tale, however, was nearing its end, and I would leave them – as I always did – wanting just that little bit more.

I could feel a bead of sweat drip down the side of my face, running from my ear down to my jaw, until it hung like a tear drop on the edge of my face. Music like this, I’d always thought, was a little bit like sex. If you were doing it right; it should leave you breathless, exhilarated, fulfilled, and always wanting to experience it again. It was the dream I spun for my audience, knowing that each of them, in their own way, desired me. They were captivated by me, and what I could make them feel, just by the movements of my fingers, and the rhythmic exhalation of my breath. I was showing them the gift that he had given me; of what it was possible to feel. I was laying what we had shared at their feet, even though they didn’t know it, because what we had shared imbued every single part of me. There was no separating him from me; or the gift that he had given me. If you listen to me play, you are listening to the joy he made me feel, and the pain he gave me afterwards. You are listening to those moments where he taught me how to love, and the moments where he taught me loss. You are hearing all the times that came afterwards, and the joy I had with others, because he had shown me what was possible. When I played, I was holding out my heart in the palm of my hand, and showing it to them.

I finished the piece and the roar overtook me; the sound of thousands of pairs of hands clapping in a tumult of ecstasy. I stood, turning towards the faceless wall of noise, and dipped my head, thanking them for coming to hear me play. Here we had shared everything, even if they didn’t know exactly what it was. I had told them all of my secrets, even though they had been hidden deep within the code of the music.

I turned them, and headed to the wings of the stage, swathed in the black fabric, to hide the comings and goings that would break the illusion for the crowd. And then I was in someone’s arms, and their mouth was on my cheek, their words of delight pouring into my ear. I was smiling as I listened to their joy, as I was crowded by others, walking me along the familiar route to my dressing room. Someone handed me a towel, someone else some water, and all the time their arm was around my waist. That heavy, joyful weight of possession. I wanted their hand to be there, on my waist, holding me close. I had chosen them, and they had chosen me. Heaven knew that I chose carefully, for once I had known what it was to love, to truly love, then little else would do.

But they had; they had taken his gift, and turned into something uniquely their own, something that I wanted to experience every day, and each night, for as long as they would have me. I put my hand around their waist, and drew them close as well, kissing them back. He had shown me what was possible, all those years ago, and I had taken that possibility, and pushed it into every aspect of my life, refusing to live anything less, because that would tarnish what we had shared. For that which he had given me, I would love him forever, for he had shown me what this world had to offer, and I had taken it with both hands. In that he stayed with me always. He was my first love, and the one whose name I would always remember calling out into the dark; both in those moments of heady joy, and in the moments of deepest pain. I would never forget him, for all that he had done for me, and in those moments, just on the edge of sleep, I wondered whether my name ever found its way to his lips, as it had to done, all those years before.  


End file.
